The sound of footsteps left Marielle frozen in her tracks. She was in no condition to run, and the closest thing to a weapon in the old cottage was a slightly lopsided blue paisley vase, or perhaps a dictionary.

If this were a horror movie, she'd most certainly be dead in the next 60 seconds.

She edged her way out of the library, hoping to keep the movements and the sensation of her panicked breathing as quiet as possible. The butterflies in her stomach turned into a bona fide sensation of wild kicking. Marielle groaned silently as she ran her hand over the large curve of her stomach, trying to reassure the athletic little creature inside that things were going to be alright.

She didn't believe it, but it was enough to keep away the darkness for a moment.

Marielle turned a shade of white she'd only read about in ghost stories, one hand clutching her journal as the other protectively guarded her stomach.

The footsteps belonged to a figure that stood in the doorway. Even in silhouette, it was one she'd recognise anywhere. No one in the room made a sound, not until the journal she held clattered to the floor.

"Anais." Marielle almost breathed the name, relief replacing adrenaline before the confusion set in. "You can't be---"

The petite figure came closer, trademark copper waves visible in the moonlight. "You can call me Anna now. Annalise, if you like. No reason anymore not to go back to the name Mama gave me."

Marielle blinked, shaking her head to clear it, willing the hallucination to disappear. "You're not here, Anais. You can't be. You're dead. The entire world thinks so."

"And you're pregnant, so seems we're both a little worse for wear these days." The unidentifiable Southern drawl hit Marielle's ears like a sour note. "Since when did I ever give a damn about what the world thinks? Turn on that light, will you? This whole scene is kind of weird and creepy, if you're askin' me."

It was the first sensible thing that anyone had said, or thought, since Marielle set foot on the property earlier that day.

"Am I—am I dead, too?" It was one of the only logical reasons Marielle could think of for seeing her old friend in the largely abandoned cottage.

"Do you feel dead?" Anais' lively voice chuckled. The light uncovered the small redhead, her pale skin and dark eyes haunting. Then again, Anais always looked that way. Marielle often compared her to a modern-day Rita Hayworth, but Anais would tilt her head back and laugh boisterously. "The difference is, dearest, that Rita could act. I'm just a girl who got lucky."

Marielle smiled at the memory, but it faded quickly.  Anais was dead. Her picture was on the front page of every paper, along with a million conspiracy theories about why another of the young Hollywood crowd was gone too soon.

If this was real, at least one of them was true.